Snowfall
by akabetty
Summary: Gemma Shepard, born & raised on the streets of New York City takes a small breather away from her nefarious compatriots. This drabble centers around the moment the hungry seventeen year old decides to enlist. Just a one-shot - Gemma is the same Shepard from 'En Route'.


_Originally a drabble as posted on Gemma Shepard, the RP_ [ gemmashepard on tumblr ]

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It's one of those times they can't leave the house. Black snow is falling and the air is full of the shit that will make them cry and cough up blood. Curt doesn't seem to mind the constant swirl of pollution that masquerades as weather and seasons.. He's still in bed, ragged blanket pulled to his nose. Finch is by the old television, cracked through the middle so that it splits the picture. She's going stir crazy. She hates when they can't leave. She hates the silence, the boredom the oppressive inactivity.

Days like these leave her restless. Finch has his television, Curt has his quiet room and warm bed. She has nothing. Nothing but killer headaches that set the world in blue fire. She sits down next to Finch to see the news. The pretty-faced anchor is talking about biotics. She supposes that is what she has, though without the fancy implants and nodes. She has seen a few of the older bangers sporting gadgets on their ears or plugged in the base of their necks. The blond news anchor with shining white teeth talks of 'Conatix' and 'Biotic Temperance Training'. Behind her stand straight-backed, clean kids, all so lucky to get flown off this rock.

She wonders what it would be like to be among them. She could be like them. She could have clean hair and shoes and a set of lungs that didn't throw up blood when she coughs. She could have parents and her own room with a window that looks out on the sky. She could make friends, shop with the other girls and blush a pretty red for the most handsome one with the best smile. But the world is not made of_ coulds_ and she knows that better than most.

"I'm going out." She says to Finch. "Tell Curt I'll be back."

"You can't. It's snowing." Finch yawns and gives her a blank, infected stare. His eyes never cleared, even when they moved up a few tiers after Jax died.

"You want to eat, right?" She wraps a scarf around her neck gingerly and pulls up a hood. The last fight had left her with a ring of bruises that stung when her fingers strayed too close. He doesn't answer, save for a nod of his egg-shaped head. He bears scars too, burns just like hers._ Jax_, she remembers. Finch's hair never grew back quite right on the left side. It was patchy and stark white against the shagged dark brown that hung to his shoulders.

When she gets outside she has to sprint to the nearest stairs. They are rusted, like all else around their little house but the slat metal roof above it had not yet fallen away or given in to rust holes. She takes each step easy, up and up near six full tiers. There's an elevator, one left abandoned by the crews who used to come and clean the lower levels. Too many never went back up, she guesses.

The rickety old lift is empty when she gets there. She shuffles inside, shaking out her frizzy hair and dusting the shoulders of her long woolen coat. She has to jam her finger inside the button to get the machine running. It makes a whirring noise like a swarm of bees as it makes the ascent. Her stomach growls and she leans her head against the cold metal wall. She would rather hear the thrum and buzzing of machines than Finch's television or Curt's snoring.

When the doors split open she can smell Nola's pot shop down the corner already. Nola was a working girl some years back, before a John nicked off her fingers. But the old broad made good stew and cheap, at least it was for her. Nola always winked at Gemma when she came, told her that she reminded Nola of herself when she was just a spry young thing, running when the Reds were still called 'The Thirteen'.

She isn't ready yet, not hungry enough and any time spent away from Curt or Finch was time well spent. She walked the alley, past Nola's and the little pawn shop that still had boarded windows. She kept on, over half a dozen swaying walkways and up numerous flights of rusted old stairs. It is quiet when she crosses the last walkway, save for the wires holding it together pinging when the swirling wind kisses it.

Over the Hudson River Gemma can make out a shadow of a skyline. When the toxic clouds shift just so she can see the glittering of window lights and faintly hear the cacophony of traffic and the lapping of churning waters against the blackened shore. She leans on the creaking rail and stares. This is her favorite spot in all the city. It's where the quiet comes and waits as if it's too afraid to cross the water. So it clusters and envelopes anyone who stands there. And for a moment, Gemma breathes and forgets who she is and where she's been.


End file.
